


Just tell me how you are

by Minkey222



Series: Peter Parker is young, dumb and reckless (and also in constant pain) [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Abuse of Hyphens, Aftermath, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker isn't okay, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, abuse of brackets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkey222/pseuds/Minkey222
Summary: “Peter,” Mr Stark yawns, stretched and returned, slumped over in his chair, the bags beneath his eyes like bruises. His skin pale. Sweaty.“I-” Peter coughed. A glass of water appeared in his hand as if by magic. There was a hand on his shoulder. It didn’t hurt (he wasn’t scared (he was safe (there’s a first time for everything))).“Peter, what happened?” the voice was small, soft, gentle. It wasn’t like Tony’s voice. It was like someone else was talking through him. It was like he was scared that Peter would float away, disappear, disintegrate if he spoke too loudly.





	Just tell me how you are

**Author's Note:**

> Man, it's been a while. I'm not great at writing dialogue/comfort but here we are. In the home stretch. TBH I think this has something to do with the fact that my coursework is due in in 20 minutes and I still haven't finished it so there's that. Have your semi-fluff. Just a couple more bits left and then we'll call it a wrap. Then I might do a couple more ficlets but who knows. 
> 
> Stay safe, Enjoy <3

Peter was weightless, floating in a cloud, swimming in a sea of nothing, his limbs heavy and his breaths easy, cocooned in a blanketing darkness. It was hard to open his eyes but as much as he could feel the desperation to keep them shut they opened of their own accord. He was enveloped in a dusty fog of orange and pink, a hazy smudge of sunset. There was a window to his left- he thinks- lit up in washes of drowsy light. It was warm but not uncomfortable. He breathes deeply and evenly, each breath coming on their own. Peter felt a great wash of contentment. For a moment everything seemed to be at peace.

 

There was a movement to his left.

 

A weight on his hip, a breath, a warmth spreading across his tight skin. His eyes were gritty and sore like he’d gotten sand, glass, grit in them (like a building fell on him (debris and concrete and metal (a pole going through his side))) as he looks around. The dark mass to his side was dead weight and still. He had no idea where he was. The room was white, the sheets, the walls, the floor, but it wasn’t overwhelming. 

 

He sat up. 

 

A little at first, propped up on his heavy arms, then all at once. His head spun and a sharp tug in his hand brought him back to the bed that he was sat in. The person to his side moved a bit and then a lot, a deep breath in and out filtered through the thin sheet over his legs. The hand on his hand twitched and then withdrew (Peter pretends he wasn’t mourning the contact).

 

“Peter,” Mr Stark yawns, stretched and returned, slumped over in his chair, the bags beneath his eyes like bruises. His skin pale. Sweaty.

 

“I-” Peter coughed. A glass of water appeared in his hand as if by magic. There was a hand on his shoulder. It didn’t hurt (he wasn’t scared (he was safe (there’s a first time for everything))).

 

“Peter, what happened?” the voice was small, soft, gentle. It wasn’t like Tony’s voice. It was like someone else was talking through him. It was like he was scared that Peter would float away, disappear, disintegrate if he spoke too loudly.

 

He didn’t have much to say in response. His memories were fuzzy, like a rock chucked in a pool of water, the ripples obscuring the fish below. The water rushing in his head. He could get close to his thoughts if he tried but if he thought too hard they would sink away, rushing past his fingertips to find somewhere else to hide. They sat in silence for a moment longer, a serene atmosphere descending onto them as the oranges transitioned into purples and reds reflected onto the room around them. Peter can’t help but get distracted with how beautiful it was (to think he almost didn’t see this (he’s a mixture of contentment and disappointment all tangled into one person (he never knew a person could feel so much))). Tony seemed hesitant to break the silence they had settled into once more.

 

“You need to talk to me- us- anyone, you-” He takes a breath “I can’t go through this again,” There was a distant look behind his eyes, like he wasn’t really in the room with Peter right now, like he was talking to someone else (Peter knew what that was like (he wasn’t the only one to have lost things (that thought hurt))). Peter sighed. His throat was scratchy, like sandpaper. He only existed within his head, his body was separate and the aches and pains present throughout him were dull and distant.

 

He coughed.

 

“I-” he tries again to say something, anything (to remember anything (Peter feels like nothing he wants to say is right (Peter’s never right))) “I- I don’t remember,”. Peter’s voice is feeling, silent, like a child who doesn’t want to own up to their sins but doesn’t want to live with the guilt much longer. Something turns in Tony’s eye.

 

“Don’t remember- don’t remember,” His tone is harsh, his chest swells, he seems to grow a size or two (Peter shrinks back ever so slightly (he’s never going to escape this (he’s never going to stop being afraid))) “Peter, you cut your wrists to ribbons, you get near cut in half by a robot, you- you- and you put us- me- your aunt May- everyone through Hell and you can’t  _ remember _ and I-” He seems to deflate, draws in another breath, drags his hands over his eyes and leans back in his chair, “And I’m taking my anger out on you,” He takes another deep breath in and out.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter’s shaking ever so slightly. He doesn’t know what else to say. Tony shakes his head.

 

“No, Peter, don’t apologize, I shouldn’t have gotten so- so- I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” his head hangs forwards. “I was- I am so worried, about you, and angry at myself that I missed all of this. That I missed that you were hurting so much that you would want to-” He stops himself. Peter’s heart is hammering in his chest. The air is heavy in the room. The purple is fading from the walls and all that is left is a fading red as the deep evening sets in.

 

“I just want to help you, Peter. Please, let me help you, let me in, let someone in,” his eyes are glossy but no tears fall. Tony places a hand on his chest, rubbing ever so slightly. Peter finds himself following suit. Peter can almost image the scars that Mr Stark bears on his skin, floating above his rib cage where once upon a time a magnet had sat, stopping metal from entering his heart. Under his own top, Peter can feel the edges of a bandage. Peter probes the area some more, following the material down until he feels the ache of a healing wound.

 

“That was infected you know, the gash from the robots. It was so deep, why didn’t you tell me you were hurt, Peter?” The pain in his voice is palpable.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weak,”, Tony lets out a weak ‘oh’ and seems to deflate even further, appearing to age a decade in a second.

 

“Peter, you could have died-” Stopping, he let out a choked breath, “Is that what it was? Did you want to- Did you want to die?” his eyes are wide, pools of emotion, threatening to flood over. 

 

“What?”

 

“Did you want the robot to kill you and then when that didn’t work you just- you just tried to finish the job yourself? I don’t understand, Peter, I don’t understand what made you feel so wrong that you- that you couldn’t live with it anymore. Is it something I did? Is it something that I didn’t do? Just- Please, tell me what happened, tell me how you are?” Peter stayed silent, allowing his voice to wash over him as his memories started filtering back through. The thoughts of Travis and Trace (and Flash (and Jake (and Skip))) and the people he couldn’t save (the people who he saved too late (he couldn’t even save himself)) all making their way through his mind. His hand balls into a fist.

 

“No-” his eyes drifting across the room, settling on Tony’s face, “No, that’s not it. It’s not your fault, I- I just, I- The memories, the thoughts of everything- everything that happened I couldn’t- I couldn’t do it anymore,”

 

“The memories of what?”

 

“I-” He takes a moment to consider, “something happened, when I was younger, something bad- really bad,” (he thinks it’s bad (is it bad if it’s him (he never deserved a happy ending anyway))) “and something happened, recently, that brought it back and then-” A tear drops down his cheek, then another (and another (and another)) “and then everything kept spiraling more and more and- I couldn’t- I couldn’t do it anymore,” his head drops and he looks down at his arms, tightly bandaged, his skin prickles underneath it. His hand finds the edges and he tugs at them. A hand moves his hand away, the calluses rough against his skin (a lump grows in his skin (where did it all go wrong?)).

 

“Oh, Peter,” Tony tuts, his hand twitches as if to reach out. Peter barely thinks as he lunges forwards (he thinks he fast (maybe he took an age (time doesn’t mean anything anymore))) grasping onto his shoulders with all the strength he can muster (he’s going to hurt someone (he can’t hurt them anymore (he doesn’t deserve the attention))). There’s a hand on his back running up and down and up and down and- Oh, Peter’s crying. Crying hard. Tears and sobs and open mouth heaving. 

 

“I can’t do it anymore, Mr Stark, I- I- I can’t,” Barely a whisper, “Please, please, please,” he’s begging, please, help him (he can’t breathe (no one’s coming (no one cares))). The hand on his back stills for a moment, tightens its grip and continues, another hand snaking around his neck and finding its place there, supporting his head like a mother holds a baby.

“Peter, you need to breathe,” The voice sounds desperate as Peter struggles time and time again to draw in a deep meaningful breath (can’t even breathe (what is he good for)). Eventually, though, leaning against the chest, listening to the beating of his heart, in time to the rhythm of his hand and the sounds of his breaths, Peter’s disobedient lungs finally cooperate and inflate. Gulping down air like it’s something new, Peter starts to compose himself once more, still raw and exposed like a newborn, still covered in the vernix of birth. Crying with the weight of the world. 

 

Peter felt new. Peter felt vulnerable. Peter felt safe.

 

“Peter-” Tony starts just as Peter opens his mouth,

 

“I-” Peter can’t find the words to say as they wait at the tip of his tongue just waiting to tumble out into a pile in front of him. His mind is uneasy, queasy, waiting to expel its content onto the shoes of the next nearest victim.

 

“Peter, you need to talk to someone- anyone. You can talk to me if you want. You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. If you don’t want to talk to me I’ll get you someone to talk to, hell, I’ll get you anything, just, Peter, please, I-” The voice is rambling again, fast like he’s scared that he won't be heard, that his voice will be swept away on the wind and will never find its way back.

 

Making up his mind, Peter opens his mouth,

“No, no, I- I want to talk to you. I need to talk to you, I- I- Yeah,” Peter sighs. His mouth is tacky and his jaw is heavy. He can usually talk anyone’s ear off (yeah, Peter, you’re so annoying (shut up shut up shut up-)) but these words are getting lost in his throat. His breaths are coming harder and heavier like he’s trying to throw up rocks.

 

“You don’t need to talk to me now, kid. You can talk whenever you’re ready,” That caring tone nearly pushes Peter right back over the edge again, his eyes becoming glossy once more, his bones rattling in his body. It’s pretty dark in the room, only a lamp on for light. 

 

“No, it’s not that- I want to talk to you- Talk now even, I just- I just don’t know where to start,”

 

“Then start from the beginning?”

 

And oh, that a heavy question. Where did this even begin? Was it with Travis, Trace, all the countless people he failed to save? Was it with Flash, Jake (Skip (even his name leaves a burning sensation in his mouth (is he really that weak?)))? Or was he born to fail? Was he destined to be broken? Brought into this world with a crack right down the middle, given in a million little pieces for his parents to piece together like a puzzle (maybe they got bored (that’s why they left)).

 

His shoulders slump. His brow furrows. His voice is weak and quivering.

 

He clenches his jaw, fist, chest.

“I had this babysitter when I was younger-”

 

Looking into Tony’s eyes it’s not his that he’s talking to. Not anymore. He’s young again, sat between his aunt and uncle and-

 

_ (his lip quivers as he worries it between his teeth. The way that his aunt and uncle are looking at him makes him clam up inside, like his guts are in a vice but, but, but, Peter  _ can’t _ not talk to them because they’re going away- they’re going away for a whole  _ weekend _ and that means Peter’ll have to stay with- With  _ Him _ and as much as he doesn’t want to ruin their anniversary trip, Peter will simply die if he has to play with Skip ever again. _

 

_ He’s never been alone with him for longer than a night. He despairs to think about what might happen if he’s given more time. _

 

_ “Peter, what’s the matter,”, he’d asked to talk to them, sat them down on the sofa, sat in silence until now. He’s prepared everything- everything but what to say. Looking into Aunt May’s eyes Peter can hardly control the guilt that eating him alive, threatening to eat through his chest. Aunt May puts her hand on his shoulder, rubbing her thumb over his collar bone. Uncle Ben has her hand clasped in his own. He’s looking at him with such sympathy that it hurts.  _

 

_ It pushes him. His eyes pouring tears down his chubby cheeks, his nose running, he can hardly catch his breath. Aunt May lunges forward and grasps him in her arms. Uncle Ben runs his hands through his hair. _

 

_ “Peter, baby, what’s the matter?” Aunt May’s grip is tight but not painful. He barely feels her against the bruises littered up and down his spine.  _

 

_ “I don’t want you to go- You can’t go!” Peter’s desperation is loud in his voice. He sounds like a baby but he doesn’t care. Aunt May’s grip loosens fractionally and that hurts more than anything. She chuckles a little, leaning back and thumbing away a tear running down his cheek. _

 

_ “Oh, Peter, you don’t want us to leave?” Her eyes are pitying. Peter rejects that notion immediately. He nods. She smiles at him. “I know this is the first time we’re going away but we’ll be back soon enough. We’ll be safe, and you’ll be safe with Skip. He’ll look after you-” She barely has time to finish her sentence before Peter lets out a howl. _

 

_ “No! You can’t leave me with him, you can’t- You can’t! I- I- I’ll run away, I’ll stow away. You- You- Please!” Peter’s practically screaming, sobbing, heaving, nearly throwing up and barely breathing, gripped in a panic so strong that he feels like he’ll melt to the bone and liquidate and squash and flow away into the floor, that he’ll fly away, he feels as heavy as lead and as light as helium and- Something in May’s eye changes, Ben’s face hardens. Peter doesn’t see any of that, trapped as he was in his own thoughts, he continues, _

 

_ “He’ll hurt me again, I can’t- You can’t- he’ll want to  _ play _ again. I hate playing, I hate him, I hate  _ Him _ , I hate him so much. I’d rather die, I’d rather  _ die  _ than be left with him, please- Please, I- I- I’ll do anything just don’t leave me here!” _

 

_ Aunt May engulfs him in her arms, _

 

_ “Peter, I thought Skip was your friend? What do you mean, he’ll hurt you?”- _

 

“He-” Peter chokes a little, picks at a fingernail, marveled that there is no trace of the carnage he wrecked on it- “He raped me. When I was younger.”

 

“Oh. Peter, I-” Tony closes his eyes, “Right.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Peter’s hands seem to be the most interesting thing in the room. 

 

“And that’s why you-” He waves his hands vaguely at Peter, “You did  _ this _ ?” 

 

“Yes- No- I- I don’t know, sort of, a bit, it- I guess it kinda starts from there?”  

 

Tony leans back, his face seeming to say ‘ _ continue’.  _ Peter groans.

 

“It’s confusing, I’m confused. I-” Peter takes another moment. Frustrated that he can’t find the words. “Okay,” Peter nods his head privately, stealing himself. “I told Aunt May and Uncle Ben a while after it happened and they got me away from him, I think he went to prison, I don’t know, to be honest, I don’t really care what happened to him as long as he was away from me,” That’s a lie (the whole week after washed away in a cloud of red and blue lights, sirens and camera shutters (he never stopped beating himself up for it)), “and I got over it, I guess. I stopped thinking about it,”

 

“Then why did this happen, kid?” Peter hums, Tony is still leant back in his chair. Now that the confession is out in the air Peter feels lighter, like the worst of the storm is over. That he should just sit back and enjoy the ride as his mouth spills his secrets,

 

“I guess it started when I was on patrol. There was a girl- Trace- she was barely older than me, Mr Stark, and I- I found her in an alley, bleeding, the guy had a knife, I thought she had been stabbed. I was wrong,” He grimaces, Tony seems to catch the drift, “I got rid of the guy who hurt her, but I was too late. What happened had already happened, and I was too late to save her. I mean, I got her home, safe, somewhere where she could try and get better, but I flipped out when I saw her. I think I saw myself in her. I felt so bad, Mr Stark. I let it happen. I  _ let _ it happen and it was all my fault that she was hurt,”

 

“Peter, it was hardly your fault that she got hurt, from what you said it sounds like you actually stopped her from getting stabbed all together,”

 

“That’s not the point. The point is that I let her get hurt like- like  _ me _ . If I was better, faster I could have stopped him, but I didn’t. And then I couldn’t forget her face,  _ His  _ face, his hands on my skin, the bruises on her, my, our arms, the blood on our hands. So I drank. I drank  _ a lot _ .”

 

“Is that when you called me?” Tony looks sorrowful like he remembered something he forgot.

 

“Yeah, I was invited to a party, so I drank. It helped, at least I think it did, for a while.” Peter’s cheeks flushed, remembering the night in blurry details washed in multi-colour lights and pounding music and liquor on the breath (in hands and teeth and vomit).

 

“You sounded pretty torn up when you called me, was that because of that girl?”

 

“No. Not really. There’s this kid, Flash, he goes to my school. It was his party and he had this friend, Jake. I was pretty gone. Usually Flash is a dick to me, I don’t know why I was surprised. He came downstairs with his friend and I was so gone, and he was pointing at me and then there were hands on me and he was- and I- I threw up and ran away. I was so scared. They confronted me at school the next week, that’s when I was late, sorry about that,” 

 

“Don’t be sorry,”

 

“I should have thought more about what I was doing,”

 

“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t have drunk as much as you did, but I would be hypocritical if I got mad. Still doesn’t give them permission to take advantage of you,”

 

“I guess so, but I’m Spider-man, I should be able to look after myself,”

 

“You were in a vulnerable position, no one’s gonna hold that against you.” Peter hums again. “And then what happened?”

 

“Well, that was the end of it for a while, it kinda went to the back of my mind, Flash and Jake stopped bothering me at school, I was fine.”

 

“But-?”

 

“And then-” Peter can barely squeeze out his name, “Then Travis happened,” Peter didn’t think he had any more tears left to shed but one more finds its path down his blotchy cheek. “I- it started when I heard him crying down the street. Something was telling me that I couldn’t ignore this, that I had to see what had happened. I swung down, looking in the window was just a mass of red and blue, Spider-man apparel, cream carpet, bare bed and in the middle of it was just this little boy,” Peter cracks a fraction of a smile at the thought of the small boy (it turns to a frown as he thinks about shattered bones (fractures skulls (red blending right in))), “Barely six years old, covering in bruises and  _ stuff _ ,” Peter shivers, “I took him away, his dad did it to him, his own  _ dad _ , I- it was awful, Mr Stark, the things that the dad was saying as I took Travis from him. Holding onto him, it was like I was in two bodies at once. I could remember being him, being scared, frightened, alone- Feeling used. I-” Peter breathes forcefully through his nose. “It was him that I was protecting when the robots came. I know you told me to leave and I was leaving, I swear I was! But I heard him calling me, trying to run over to me. They were surrounded. I had to do something, I couldn’t leave him. So that’s why I fought them. It was me or them, I had to fight.”

 

“You got stabbed, Peter. You could have died,” 

 

“And what, if I hadn’t tried Travis would have died,” A heat rises to his face, “I guess it was for nothing anyway. I got benched and Travis- Travis died anyway.” Peter feels like he’s cracked a tooth with how hard he is grinding his jaws.

 

“What happened?”

 

“His dad took him. Took him from school in the morning and- and just broke him. Shattered him, beat him, cracked his ribs and dented his skull. They say the body was barely recognisable,” He feels empty, the pain washing over him as he relives the moment he found out again (and again (and again (it’s what he deserves))). “It’s my fault, I should have kept an eye out for him. I shouldn’t have been so useless and gotten myself benched, I should have been better,”

 

“Peter, that honestly isn’t your fault. Yes, it is sad, horrifically sad, but not your fault,”

 

“He-” His voice breaks. “He was so small and fragile, I felt like I could have snapped him in half when I carried him across the city. When I found out, that’s when I felt different. I felt like there was nothing left for me. I felt empty. Lost? Like I was worth nothing. As I walked home I just kept looking at my life and seeing how much of a burden I was on everyone- Aunt May- You. I just kind of decided that I had to do something about it.”

 

“And that’s when you- When you decided then?” 

 

Peter can barely nod. Tony rubs his forehead.

 

“I’m sorry that you had to deal with all of that on your own. I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t talk to me.”

 

“Don’t blame yourself, it’s not your fault,” Tony only hums in response. They sit in silence for a moment longer.

 

A rustle outside the door drag their attention away.

Aunt May opens the door, gentle but forcefully and breathes a sigh of relief when she sees him. Bags under her eyes, she approaches him.

 

“I got a text that you had woken up,” She seems at a loss for what to say, “I came right away,” Her smile is paper thin, as fragile as glass, like any thought would shatter it. She flounders for a moment before striding forwards, kneeling beside his bed with her hand out, grasping his as Tony withdraws.

 

“We were just talking,” Tony says as he takes a step back. May looks at him and nods, turning back to Peter after a brief moment.

 

“I’m glad to see you awake,” The alive goes unsaid (the thought of leaving Aunt May alone runs him through and leaves his heart bleeding).

 

“Yeah,” The moment is heavy but not uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” Peter averts his head, May chokes up as she shakes hers,

 

“No, no, don’t be sorry, Peter. Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry,” She clings to him, her back bobbing up and down as she sobs. Sniffling she brings her head up, just for a second, just to breathe and she holds his face, looks into his eyes (she sees Ben in him sometimes (Peter’s not worthy of the resemblance (maybe he can be worthy))), 

 

“I love you so much, Peter.” and with that, she places her head back into the crook of his neck, not crying, but just listening to the sound of Peter’s heartbeat. The rattle each breath makes in his lungs. Mr Stark’s hand found its way back to his shoulder, a settled weight holding him down on earth. Looking up at him, he mouths ‘thank you’ and Tony nods in return, the sentiment returned.

 

“Yeah and I larb you, May,” She hiccups a wet laugh.

 

“Larb you too, Peter,”

 

The feeling of contentment fills him up to the brim.

 

He wonders how he could have ever forgotten that someone loved him.

 

Maybe, it’ll all work out in the end (he’s always dreamed of a happy ever after anyway).

 


End file.
